


The Letter J

by lotusk



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Angst with a Happy Ending, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, First Love, Frottage, Light Angst, Love/Hate, M/M, Making Out, Making Up, Mild Language, Mildly Dubious Consent, Past Relationship(s), Rain, Storms, Teen Angst, Teen Romance, Thunder and Lightning, Wet Clothing, chenkai are the same age
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:29:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7299604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotusk/pseuds/lotusk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jongin hates Jongdae. Like a lot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Letter J

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CHENstagram](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CHENstagram/gifts).



> For Paul. Always.

_Sleep_. Jongdae would do anything for the chance to just lie down somewhere—a bench, a couch, the floor even—and shut his eyes for ten minutes. He was just sinking into this fantasy where he got to lie down in an actual bed and sleep for hours and hours, when he saw a boy stepping out of a classroom. 

"Later," Jongin smiled, waving at his classmates as he walked out into the corridor. Jongin usually had a smile for everyone except. . .Jongdae watched as the leftovers of Jongin’s smile died abruptly as soon as his eyes rested on Jongdae in the corridor. 

"Jongin," he tried. He _always_ tried even if Jongin never let him get beyond calling his name. All the easy friendliness had drained out of Jongin's eyes—anger and loathing flowing rapidly into the empty spaces. Whenever Jongdae registered on Jongin's radar, he was consistently treated to a blast of wrathful hate; and pathetic as it was, Jongin always looked glorious to him—even when heat was sparking off him in hostile waves.

“Don’t,” was all he said, eyes stormy and mouth pursed as he turned on his heel and stalked off. 

Standing, abandoned in the middle of the corridor as crowds of students streamed around him, Jongdae watched as Jongin's feet began moving faster, taking him further and further away. He'd seen those black lNike SBs stride away from him more times than he cared to remember in the past six months—each step an eloquent statement of apathy. He was so tired; he just wanted things to be the way they used to be.

 _I suppose I should consider myself lucky he didn't spit in my face_ , Jongdae thought sardonically as he jammed into his hands into his jeans pockets. _One day_. One day, he'd make Jongin understand what had really happened that day.

///

Fat, heavy drops of rain landed on the sidewalk in quick, aggressive splats—the sound of the falling rain so loud that Jongdae's frustrated _fuck_ was barely audible. He knew he should have listened when his mom had nagged him to bring an umbrella to school that morning, but he detested carrying any kind of additional cargo in his already fatally heavy backpack. Even the small, collapsible umbrella she'd been waving in his face that morning had seemed like too much extra baggage.

Now he was filled with regret as he jogged through an empty side street in a deserted part of town—his vision blurred by the raindrops clinging to his glasses and his jeans and white t-shirt plastering uncomfortably to his rain-wet skin. The t-shirt was worn out from so many washes it was rice paper thin; and in its current drenched state, did nothing to keep his body warm. All it really even did was to make the brownish pink of his nipples starkly obvious. 

_He_ 'd always insisted they weren't pinkish at all. “They're caramel, duh,” he used to say. Not that it even mattered anymore—their lives no longer intersected. He should throw that shirt out. He had no reason to hang on to it when the person who'd given it to him had discarded him without even giving him a chance to explain. Jongdae knew this objectively but feelings were stubborn things that wouldn't go away, shirts that refused to be thrown out.

Just when he thought things couldn't get any worse, jagged spears of intense white lit up the sky. He needed to find shelter and he needed to find it fast. Desperate and impatient, he almost missed the solitary building halfway down the street he was running through. It looked like a small house, and more importantly, it had an open door. Jongdae didn’t even hesitate as he sprinted in, shoes squelching and hair dripping. He'd ask the owner if he could enter _after_ he was safe from the streaks of electricity cleaving the sky in two. 

So relieved to be out of the wet, he didn’t notice at first that he wasn't alone in the dim, empty house. There was no furniture, no curtains, no knickknacks or mementos to mark the fact that people had lived here. As his eyes scanned the room, he saw the tall, thin figure by the window. Whoever the other occupant was, he had his back towards him and he was stripping off what looked like a sodden plaid shirt. Jongdae watched as the stranger wrung the rainwater out of it. There was something. . .familiar somehow about the set of those broad shoulders, the elegant shoulder blades, the narrow waist, the long torso. 

The stranger turned around, one hand pushing his messy wet fringe out of his eyes, and the backpack Jongdae had been easing onto the floor fell with an abrupt thud. The other boy's eyes flew up at the sound and for a single naked moment, Jongdae saw raw emotion in the moody, dark brown eyes. He couldn't put a name to it, but he knew it wasn't anger or loathing. 

"Get out." The words dropped from Jongin's mouth like stones—so cold and hard they bruised Jongdae's skin. The sudden cracks of thunder seemed to punctuate Jongin's rejection of him, but at the same time, they provided Jongdae with the perfect excuse he needed to stay.

“Thunderstorms are dangerous. It'll be your fault if I get struck by lightning just because you won’t share this house with me. There’s plenty of space; you won’t even know i’m here.”

“I doubt that so just leave,” Jongin snorted, dismissive, as he flung his shirt, scattering an array of droplets across the dusty room. And that's when Jongdae noticed what he was wearing—sheer and white and clinging to his too-slim body. It was identical to the white tee he himself wore, which was nothing in itself as one white tee looked pretty much like the next white tee. Except, of course this wasn't any white tee. Jongdae should know because he'd paid for it three years before. Just above dark aureole, was the single letter _J_ in blue stitching. He wondered if it scratched at his skin and his soul the way the red _J_ did on his. Jongdae's favorite color was blue and he wondered if red was still Jongin's favorite. 

They had been so naive at fourteen, thinking they'd be in love forever no matter what.

He knew why he wore his white tee, but why did Jongin wear his? A sliver of hope dared to worm its way into Jongdae's heart.

"I'm staying."

"Then _I'll_ go," Jongin said angrily, just before the storm dark sky flashed hot white with a massive streak of lightning.

"The street is flooded. You'd be struck for sure. You've got better chances at survival if you stay in here with me. You might get acutely annoyed and pissed off, but you won't die. I promise," Jongdae made a stab at lame sarcasm and for half a second, it looked like Jongin was holding back a smile, but no, it had probably been a trick of the light.

"Fine. But we're staying on opposite ends of the room. And don't speak to me." He flung Jongdae one final grimace before turning around to face the window—the glass caked with grime and dust and God only knew what. He got the white shirt off in one swift tug, shoulder blades lifting elegantly and the muscles on his back rippling and flowing. Seeing Jongin's beautiful bronzed skin filled Jongdae with a wave of such intense yearning he could feel the need leaking out his pores and reaching for Jongin. 

So it was no surprise to him when his feet started moving across the room—closing the distance between him and a tapestry of skin and bone and muscle that was moody Jongin. Taking a desperate breath of much needed air, Jongdae took one final step and wrapped his arms around Jongin, trapping his arms and resting his cheek against cool, still-damp skin.

"What the fuck, Jongdae?!" Jongin struggled in his arms, trying to break free.

"Just let me. . .just for a few seconds," Jongdae whispered, pressing his lips against his skin and inhaling the scent of rain-tinged Jongin.

"Get off me," he tried to pull Jongdae's arms off. He'd always been the stronger by far so if he had really wanted to, he could have easily gotten out of Jongdae's embrace. _Easily_. Taking heart from this fact, Jongdae shut his eyes and held on tight.

"Get the fuck off me. Your shirt is wet and gross. Get off, Jongdae, I mean it!"

"Why do you still have that shirt, Jongin?"

"I don't know what you mean." Stubborn. Jongin had always been stubborn. And proud.

"The shirt I gave you."

"It was just there in my closet."

"Why didn't you throw it out? You've had nothing to do with me for six months."

"Who cares? It's just a shirt for fuck's sake, just like any other shirt."

"Any other shirt?" Jongdae's mouth moved over Jongin's bare neck and the body that had been stiff and unyielding in his arms relaxed by several degrees. 

"It's just a shirt, Jongdae. Deal with it."

"I don't believe you," he licked Jongin's nape—his mouth closing hungrily over a slender earlobe. The other boy couldn't quite hide the moan that escaped, echoing through the room despite the sounds of pouring rain and distant thunder. Jongin didn't quite allow Jongdae to turn him around but somehow it happened anyway—even though he had three inches of height advantage and fifteen pounds of extra leverage.

His eyes blazing with some kind of fierce emotion, Jongin pushed him away but Jongdae wasn't going to give up—not when he'd waited so long to get close to him. . .close to _the boy he loved_ , perhaps the only boy he ever would love. He kept advancing on Jongin even as the other boy backed away. 

"Tell me why, you owe me that much," Jongdae trapped him, finally, as Jongin ran out of floor space and found his shoulder blades pressed up against the wall. 

"I don't owe you anything, Kim Jongdae. You were the one who fucked up when you kissed that sunbae—whoever he was even. Fucked if I care." Jongin looked everywhere but at him—hostility and animosity etched into every feature of his face.

"He kissed me, not the other way around. If you'd stayed a few seconds longer you'd have seen me pushing him off," Jongdae sighed, expelling warm breath onto Jongin's collarbones, making the other boy flinch.

"You can make anything up now. I saw what I saw."

"I'm telling the truth, I swear." But Jongdae knew words weren't going to get him anywhere so he took the few steps he needed to have their chests touching—his covered in rain-slick cotton and Jongin's bare.

"Fuck off, Jongdae. I don't want you anymore," Jongin bit out in a cold, hollow voice. Jongdae knew he should listen and respect Jongin's wishes but his longing for the boy he loved was spilling and spilling out of his heart and he couldn't make it stop. 

_I don't want to make it stop_. . .

The words loud in his head, he grabbed Jongin roughly and crushed his mouth to his and for a few moments he was sure Jongin was going to push him to the ground, maybe even punch him. But then fingers were plucking spectacle frames off his face and Jongin’s plush, plush lips were crushing his back and Jongdae moaned, lips parting so the taste of Jongin could invade his mouth, like sweet wine on his tongue. Frantically, they licked into each other’s mouths, hands clutching and releasing—sliding over rain-cool skin that was warming up fast. As Jongdae’s fingertips skated over the sharp edges of Jongin’s collarbones and the wide contours of his shoulders and explored the wet sweetness of his mouth, a deep ache settled in his chest. . .he had almost accepted he’d never again touch the golden warmth of Jongin’s skin and taste its saltiness, never again explore all the bony ridges and taut muscles, never again stroke the silky texture of his fine, straight hair. 

Cool air brushed against his chest as Jongin dragged the white t-shirt off with impatient hands, and then they were kissing again, deep and fast. Six months was a long time and neither of them had ever been the patient kind, anyway. Jongin kissed a burning path down his neck and he gasped as he felt aubergine marks forming beneath the line of his collarbones. When Jongin took one nipple between his teeth and sucked on it, it almost sent Jongdae over the edge and their hips strained and bucked, moving together desperately. Jongdae no longer noticed the heavy wet fabric that clung to his thighs; all he could feel was Jongin’s hot mouth engulfing his nipple, tongue lapping at it—his husky voice whispering _still caramel_ in between licks and pulls.

“I want you so much, Jongin, so fucking much,” Jongdae groaned as he tightened his arm around Jongin’s waist and they ground against each other, mouths melding in a stormy kiss that scorched Jongdae to the depths of his soul. The sensations were piling up, hot and overwhelming as Jongin’s tongue wrapped around his and his cock pressed hard against his. Together, they rocked, all broken gasps and soft moans and clutching hands and as Jongin’s hands snuck under the waistband of his jeans and cupped his ass, pulling him in hard, it was all too much for Jongdae. Thrusting even more urgently, the pleasure built and built and built and then he was shuddering in Jongin’s arms as the other boy found release just seconds later. His heart beating loudly in his ears, Jongdae bowed his head and rested his forehead against his shoulder.

“Are we. . .are we okay, Jongin?” He kept his head down. He wasn’t ready to see rejection in Jongin’s eyes, and considering this was Jongin? Stubborn as fuck Jongin? Jongdae was better off not looking up.

“I’m not sure. I don’t know. I’m not ready for this—whatever _this_ is.”

“That’s better than _fuck off_ and _get out_ ,” he stated solemnly even though his heart was soaring for the first time in months and he smiled as he noticed the untidy pile of (now dirty) t-shirts. It was too dim to see anything clearly but he indulged himself with the image of Jongin’s red _J_ interlocked with his own blue _J_. “I think this is a good start.”

“Fuck off, Kim Jongdae!” he growled but Jongdae could hear it—could hear the traces of a smile in his voice. . .


End file.
